


The Multitudes of You and Time and the Universe

by zemph147



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zemph147/pseuds/zemph147
Summary: Sherlock has never been so overwhelmed with mutual incredulity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a lot of Sherlock Feelings that consume too many of my waking thoughts, so this is me working through them. Not beta'd, not brit-picked, hopefully not too full of errors that it's unreadable. I tried to make it ambiguous in case of canon Johnlock, but ultimately not at all S4 compliant. I never write fluff but here you go. Maybe will have other chapters, but for now, just the one. There's no mention of the baby, but presumably all three of them live happily ever after in some impossibly fluffy domestic situation. Thanks for reading!

The first time feels like a dream, so much so that Sherlock will have moments even years later when he doubts its reality. It will take John's touch, a casual hand on Sherlock's hip or the gentle flicking away of an eyelash from Sherlock's cheek, to remind him: even if it is a dream, he has never woken up. He replays each moment perfectly, recalls every detail, and still it does not feel certain. Something about the light, the scent in the air, electric and dark. Like, somehow, in that first moment in the rain, the touch of their lips sends them skittering across timelines, rocketing into a new universe where anything is possible.

Sherlock's fantasies were different from this strange new reality. In his mind, once whatever enormous and implausible catalyst took them from friends to more, they would instantly leap into bed, a thought both arousing and terrifying. But after the tension of their real fight in the rain shatters like frozen glass dropped into a furnace, after John kisses him with all the power of the storm, the air is hesitant and uneasy, the unknown hanging unspoken between them. In the taxi back to Baker St., John holds Sherlock's hand, grips with white knuckles, but stares out the window with an unflinching gaze. They climb the stairs to the flat in silence, and in the eerie, grey-blue light of 221B, they stand apart, staring at each other.

"I don't know what happens now," Sherlock says, hating the words, but hating the silence more.

John clears his throat. "I think whatever we want." He touches his mouth, as if to remind himself of what happened not 30 minutes ago. "What do you want?" There's no demand in his voice. He sounds vaguely drunk, but his face is unreadably calm. 

Sherlock gapes, unprepared for the question. They've never talked about this, not at all, and he isn't sure what he's allowed to say. He can't truly be sure John is not a hallucination.

"Fuck it," John says under his breath. "Just, fuck it."

Three long steps bring him into Sherlock's space. He presses himself into Sherlock, like he's being dragged in by magnetic force, one hand drawing up to cup Sherlock's neck. His lips are soft against Sherlock's mouth, like he's getting used to the feel of it, cherishing the sensation itself. The eroticism of his delicacy decimates Sherlock. An embarrassing groan, broken by the barest hint of a whine, escapes from Sherlock's mouth into John's, and John swallows it. He drags on Sherlock's neck, fingernails digging into delicate skin, and their mouths collide with a passion Sherlock has never known. He keens, near a swoon, and John writes his intentions with his tongue, a vow to devour Sherlock entirely. 

They break away, panting. There's that electric, brand new world feeling again. He gazes into John's eyes, and knows John can feel it too. John's mouth twitches with half a smile. Sherlock has never been so overwhelmed with mutual incredulity. 

"Do you really want this?" John says, like it can't possibly be true. 

John's uncertainty is confusing, because of course Sherlock does, he has for many years. The logistics of physicality might be new, but the desire is decidedly not. All he can manage is a slightly frantic nod. John blinks at him.

"Here," John says, and takes Sherlock's hand in his. He pulls two of Sherlock's fingers up to John's neck, presses them against John's pulse. It throbs at a vicious staccato; the rate is alarming.

"It feels like my heart is going to explode," John says. It isn't a sappy emotional exposition, it's a fact. Sherlock takes his other hand and puts it over John's heart, steady even as it races. John's heartbeat taps code into Sherlock's palm, a frenzy of anxious wonder, and it sings through Sherlock's blood until he has no choice but to surrender his doubt. He has a hard time even conceptualizing regret.

Sherlock kisses John this time, inhaling his scent as he crowds him. John grabs the lapels of Sherlock's coat, groans up into the kiss. They stagger there in the middle of the sitting room for a minute, uncoordinated and ravaging. In the very back of Sherlock's mind, he knows the next step must be to take off their clothes, mostly due to them being absolutely soaked to the bone, and he's desperate to know what John thinks of the idea, what John thinks of them going further, what John thinks about what happens next-- 

"You're shaking," John says against Sherlock's lips. His fingers trace over Sherlock's neck. "You're so cold."

"I can't feel it," Sherlock says, and it's true, he doesn't feel cold at all.

"That's not good," John says. He ghosts his mouth over Sherlock's, like he can't stop. "You need to get out of these clothes, take a hot shower." John's mothering never sounded so sexy, but it has never been breathed against Sherlock's skin.

"Come with me?" Sherlock asks before he can stop himself.

John kisses him, quickly, but with force. "Yes," he says, and then clears his throat. "Yes, I can do that."

Sherlock takes his hand again, because Sherlock likes holding John's hand. John squeezes so tight, the tips of Sherlock's fingers go numb.

The light of the bathroom seems harsh after the murk of the living room. Sherlock catches sight of them in the mirror and is struck by how old both of them look. Part of it is they've barely slept for a week, part is the muddy fight they were in yesterday, and part of it just the way the rain flattens their hair, creating a general weariness. But when he looks at John, actually looks at him, he sees nothing but the most incredible glowing warmth. John smiles at him like sunshine, kisses him like summer.

Disrobing is awkward. The bathroom isn't big enough for two sets of knees and elbows, particularly when some belong to Sherlock, and the stickiness of the wet clothing makes the entire thing dissolve into something of a comedy of errors. By the time Sherlock is down to his pants, John is sitting on the floor, his trousers around his ankles, pulling at his boot like a small child. Sherlock laughs, and despite John's death glare, gets to his knees and helps John out of his soggy shoes. Then there's the creaking commotion of two middle-aged men, nevermind their fitness, getting off the floor. Sherlock helps John again, and when they are finally standing, only in their pants, Sherlock can't help but take a moment to look at John. 

His fingers land on John's scar, a gnarled splatter of modern warfare. John sighs, and puts his own fingers over Sherlock's heart, where Mary's bullet nearly ended everything. The tears in John's eyes catch Sherlock off guard, though John lets none escape.

"I'm sorry," John says. "For everything. Everything, always, all the way back to the first time I called you a colleague instead of a friend." He takes a deep breath, eyes still on Sherlock's chest. "I feel like I've been through a war with you."

"Morally dubious, dangerous, irrational, tragic, and completely transforming. I can see why."

John comes close and presses his mouth to Sherlock's scar. He noses into it, like he wants to memorize it with his face. When he pulls back, he looks embarrassed, but keeps his hands resting on Sherlock's hips.

"Every war has to come to an end sometime," John says, stealing a glance at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock swallows. "We could retire to Sussex," he blurts. "Learn apiary."

John laughs. "What?"

"Retire. You could write a book, or run a small private practice. I could solve cold cases, and yell at the television, and keep bees. No more war."

John's grin is so wide, it makes him look vaguely idiotic. "What?" he says again, like something is wrong with his hearing.

"It's just a thought," Sherlock says, omitting its one that has kept him alive in his worst times.

John looks so happy, Sherlock feels dizzy. Then John's hands are on his face, and John's mouth is on his, and nothing in the entire universe exists except for them, in this one moment, stretching out across the infinite multiverse, the way they always should have been and always will be. 

Sherlock doesn't know how they end up in the shower. John's mind must be functioning slightly better than his, a rarity, but one Sherlock is glad for. The water shocks full sensation back to his skin; the burning consumes everything for several long moments. When he comes back to awareness, they are naked. John is at the other end of the tub, watching him.

"Feel better?" John asks. Sherlock can only nod. John's erection is larger than Sherlock's most generous estimate. He cannot fathom why John's size arouses him so much, because certainly in terms of putting anything inside of Sherlock, the smaller the better. But the idea that John is well endowed has long plagued Sherlock's fantasies. This surpasses them all.

Sherlock steps forward, but stops at a hint of hesitation on John's face.

"Sorry," John says immediately. "Sorry, it's--" He laughs uncomfortably. "It's strange, and not particularly logical."

Sherlock watches him, willing to wait forever for what he has to say. John sighs.

"It's just--um, I'm still wrapping my head around--" His laughter is half genuine, like it's absurd enough to be earnestly amusing. "When I'm touching you, it doesn't matter. When I'm touching you, everything makes sense. This is just very new, ah, for me."

"Then touch me again," Sherlock says.

John relaxes.

"It's new for me too," Sherlock adds, barely audible over the sound of the spray. 

"Really?"

Sherlock nods. He looks down at his own erection, familiar, but odd in this company. He has no shame about his inexperience, old enough to finally be able to shrug off any teasing. Truly, he has never wanted before John, not with anything near this intensity. 

John lets all the air in his lungs out through his nose, and his shoulders drop. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Don't be." He puts one hand on John's chest, the other on his neck, and kisses him. It's tacky with water droplets, and when Sherlock's tongue slides against John's lips, Sherlock can taste John's sweat rinsing off him. Sherlock chases it, tasting along John's jawline, two days worth of stubble scraping against his lips and tongue. He breathes, nuzzles down John's neck, following the remnants of the case that led them here. He ends up at John's chest, sucking gently on John's left nipple as the shower pounds on his shoulders. John's groan is garbled in the water, and Sherlock retreats to John's mouth to catch the sound at the source.

"Can I touch you?" John asks, and before Sherlock can say of course, they are already touching, John says it again.

"Oh," Sherlock says. "Yes."

John's hand slips down Sherlock's front, his fingertips lingering at the top of Sherlock's pubic hair, palm hovering over the head of Sherlock's cock. John bends in and sucks Sherlock's neck just as his hand descends, stroking with tentative firmness. Sherlock's knees almost give out. He stumbles, half slips, the shower making its precarious nature known. Sherlock will never admit to the noise he makes.

John laughs as he catches him. "Okay, new plan. We get clean as fast as humanly possible, and continue this warm and dry."

Sherlock's chest burns pink; his cheeks must be flush. John studies them as Sherlock passes him the soap. John lathers and begins to wash Sherlock. The casual comfort of it is startling, but John's hands carry a remarkable amount of reverence, and the look on his face is one of trance. He turns Sherlock, shampoos his hair. Sherlock can't help but touch himself as John's fingers massage his scalp, but as soon as John spots Sherlock's indulgence, he pauses, his face going blank with whatever the aroused equivalent of fury might be. 

"Stop," John says. "Stop, get clean." He works the soap with new vigor, scrubbing himself with military speed. Sherlock follows his example, trying to hide exactly what John's command does to him. 

They stumble out and towel off. Sherlock shakes his hair out like an oversized dog, which prompts John to drag him into Sherlock's bedroom, grip lethal around Sherlock's wrist. He flings Sherlock onto the bed, and Sherlock sprawls on the unmade sheets, still damp. John's momentum catches as he stands at the edge of the bed, like he's noticing Sherlock's legs for the first time. His fingers run over the knobs of Sherlock's knees. He looks lost in thought, despite his truly incredible erection. Little drops of water trickle over his musculature.

"John," Sherlock says.

"I love your legs," John says, like an escaped thought. "They're so bloody long."

Sherlock blinks at him. "Thank you."

John looks up at him, and when their eyes meet, John's face lights up.

"You're really here," he says.

Sherlock bends up and gathers John into his arms, pressing his face against John's chest and embracing him. His embarrassment burns against John's heartbeat, but he can't help it. John curls his arms around Sherlock's head, and the moment suspends itself, a single second dragging on so they can steal some peace. They deserve it, Sherlock figures. 

John presses Sherlock back into the bed. He kisses him softly at first, but his body is across Sherlock's, their erections lined a few centimeters from each other, and it feels too good too quickly to slow down. John tangles one hand in Sherlock's hair, tugging just too hard, and laces the other into Sherlock's, planting them on the bed. Sherlock's hips move minutely, and their kissing turns frantic, like this is the first and last kiss they will ever have and therefore must hold nothing back. It's humid between their bodies, the friction sticky, and they're both going to have substantial beard burn, but it's still the best thing Sherlock has ever felt, better than cocaine.

Sherlock takes his free hand and gropes between them, and John arches his hips accommodatingly. Sherlock grapples to take both their cocks at once, but settles on just John, because once he starts touching John, he can't stop. He's perfect in Sherlock's hand, so soft Sherlock shivers with the sensation. John whines into Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock instantly catalogs and files away the noise, permanent and locked. 

"Just so you know," John pants, "It's been a long couple of days, and I'm um--I'm a little worked up, I just--I'm not as young as I used to be, and if you want something else from me--" He gasps as Sherlock's grip twists.

"What else could I possibly want from you?" Sherlock wonders aloud. 

John laughs into Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock can feel the echo of it all the way through him. 

"I'm trying to tell you, you're going to make me come fast if you keep that up," John says.

"Oh," Sherlock says. He pauses his hand. "Do you want me to stop?"

John groans. "No, god no."

He kisses Sherlock, filthy and decadent. Sherlock fists John's cock hard, finding a clumsy rhythm resembling what he enjoys himself. John's panting becomes freckled with a low moan, and he's pulling Sherlock's hair so tight, Sherlock briefly fears he will lose a clump.

"Jesus," John whines. "I promise I'm not normally--" The rest of the sentence is lost to a groan.

"I don't care," Sherlock says, because he's pretty sure he's about to bring John to orgasm, and he doesn't want to lose one minute of it.

But then John untangles their hands and reaches for Sherlock's cock. Everything becomes light and sensation, each callus of John's hand shooting pulses of scalding energy across Sherlock's nerves, fueling the blooming flame within. Sherlock throws his head back, overcome with it. 

"God, look at you," John says. He rubs his face all over Sherlock's neck, then fixates on a spot just above Sherlock's collar bone, suckling, and breathing, and moaning against it until Sherlock is certain it will purple. He can only hear their breath, and the roaring in his ears. John's cock in his hand feels unbreakable. He strokes it as fast as he can, trying to match John's pace, but then he can't focus on anything at all, because the world becomes a white, hot, horizonless kind of place, where there is no gravity or thermodynamics, but somehow there is consciousness, aware of its own ecstasy in the void.

"Sherlock," John says, back on earth.

Sherlock hums against his skin. Everything is slick with sweat. Sherlock lies on John's chest, their legs tangled together, John's arm around Sherlock, his hands toying with Sherlock's hair. John's semen streaks across his stomach, Sherlock's smears between them. 

"Are you okay?" John asks.

"I am fairly certain I have never felt better," Sherlock says. He angles his neck to look at John, whose grin is both ecstatic and smug.

"You make a completely unreal amount of noise," John says. He chuckles at Sherlock's blush, stroking his fingertips over Sherlock's cheekbones. "It's incredible, please never stop."

His laughter simmers off, and then they are just looking at each other. Everything they have yet to talk about clouds the air around them, yet Sherlock cannot grasp at those words yet. He tucks himself back against John's chest, listening to his heart. Though the evidence is hot beneath him, thudding in his ear, disbelief still sparks at the back of his skull.

"Do you think it will ever feel real? Or will it always be like this?" Sherlock asks John's ten chest hairs.

"I don't know," John says. "Normally I would say we'll get used to it, but nothing like this has ever happened to me."

"Surely being shot, or discovering what you did about your wife, the shock must be comparable."

"No, I'm gonna say realizing suddenly, and with a good deal of certainty, after years of living together, that I am in love with my male best friend, that beats getting shot. I recovered from being shot. I'll never get over this."

Sherlock can't breathe. He sits up to look at John, and tries to find the air to speak. John's face is as open as Sherlock has ever seen it, every last of his defenses down.

"What did you say?" Sherlock whispers.

John looks him directly in the eye, breathing softly. "I love you.".

"Are you sure?"

"I can't promise you we are in reality, and I can't promise you the world won't end tomorrow, but if there's anything I know for sure now, it's this," John says.

Sherlock kisses him like maybe the world really will end. Maybe it's the price they pay for entering this universe. 

"I love you," Sherlock slips out, like a secret. "I think I always have."

John breathes his words in. He kisses Sherlock like he means to do it every day for the rest of his life. Sherlock's beginning to believe he really does. 

"I don't want to wake up," Sherlock says. "If this is a dream--"

"If this is a dream, you'll have to wake up and come find me," John says. "I'm an idiot. I don't know how I did it, but I hid this from myself. You have to make me see. Whatever world you end up in tomorrow, find me and make me realize."

Sherlock feels melancholy then, for all their missed opportunities. Life has manipulated them apart too many times to count. 

"I won't wander from this place, wherever it is" Sherlock says. "I can't. Now that I have this, I won't be able to let it go."

"It still doesn't feel possible," John says.

"Across infinite timelines, all things are possible," Sherlock says.

They share a long, lingering, exhausted kiss, which ends with Sherlock's yawn.

"I'm not even tired," Sherlock says as he dozes against John's neck.

John laughs, low in his chest. His heartbeat lulls Sherlock to sleep, and weaves into the music of his dreams.


End file.
